


Stifled moans, hungry eyes

by jimmriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: It's basically a more pretentious version of Netflix and Chill, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seriously this is just Jim sucking Sherlock's off in a concert hall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5639488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmriarty/pseuds/jimmriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you find that hard asking what you truly want?"<br/>Jim's voice is a hot whisper that breaks against Sherlock's neck. It's temptation personified, the hiss of the snake who convinced Eve to pick the apple. It's something that Sherlock simply can't resist. Sherlock turns, swallows hard and stares at him right in the eyes and oh, his pupils are so dilated and his blue irises are so full of desire that Jim has to suppress a moan of pure happiness and ecstasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stifled moans, hungry eyes

If there is anything Jim Moriarty could do forever without getting bored, is watching Sherlock.

He loves seeing small, almost imperceptible changes in a face that only seems cold and hard; he loves how a single word can create a spark that, behind blue irises, shines like the brightest of lights. It turns Sherlock's gaze into a fire. Jim would let it burn him every day.

He loves spying on him with the cameras he has put everywhere at 221b, observing the exact moment a new theory pops up in that brilliant mind Jim adores so much. He fixes the image in his memory the same way a pin holds down a colourful butterfly destined to be exposed in a display case. Nothing is more worthy of being preserved, nothing is more beautiful than Sherlock's soft lips open in the shape of a perfect 'o' and the sudden joy that pervades every fibre of his being, making him move in a way that reminds Jim of a big cat.

He also loves all those expressions he would find boring on anyone else. The little gasp or surprise when Jim bites his hips, the hint of a smile that raises his lips when the conversation becomes dark and grotesque, the way he rolls his eyes in front of a gift – usually an expensive scarf or, as in this case, a couple of tickets for a concert of the most prestigious orchestra in the whole country – that he will accept anyway.

Jim closes his eyes, lets the darkness of the eyelids hide for a moment the image of his favourite detective. Sherlock is still in his mind, though. Even if Jim tries to focus on the melodious strings, all he can think about is the man sitting next to him.

He is aware of their proximity, of the few inches separating their fingers – if a day of twenty years before someone had told him the future of their relationship, Jim would have cried and laughed at the same time -, of the slight movements Sherlock makes trying to adjust himself in the chair of one of the most isolated and hidden seats.

When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock seems even more beautiful than before. Dark curls framing his face in a way that seems messy but is instead the result of precise calculations, lips just barely parted and a hint of admiration in his eyes – it truly must be one of the best orchestras in the world to cause that reaction in someone like Sherlock, always ready to complain and belittle the work of others – that makes Jim somehow jealous.

Jim loves observing Sherlock, but, if there is something he likes even more, is being the one behind his reactions. Touching him to change his world but not enough to satisfy him entirely. Leaving him with a hole that he will never be able to explain rationally to himself, a crave that will push him further and further every time.

Jim moves his right hand and places it on Sherlock's knee. He lingers on the joint a couple of seconds, index and middle fingers tracing invisible patterns that follow the melody, before rising slowly. His hand is just above his mid-thigh when Sherlock starts moving in his chair.

Jim's teeth shine in the darkness of the room. He leans toward Sherlock just enough to bring his lips to his ear. He doesn't dare to touch it. Not yet.

"Honey" The soft voice overlaps the musical instrument without ruining the harmony of the symphony. "Is there something wrong?"

Sherlock turns and faces him. He looks at him with furrowed eyebrows and doubt in the corners of his lips. Jim would like to lick it off.

Sherlock stays silent a second or two, probably taking into account the pros and cons of every possible answer, building in his mind castles that Jim could knock down with a single sigh. At the end, the detective relaxes his lips into a smile, indecision now gone and gaze back on the concert that is taking place a few metres below them.

"No."

It's his way of saying that Jim can keep going.

"Good. You looked..." His fingers move to the inner thigh, fingertips just barely brushing Sherlock's crotch. "Troubled."

Jim opens his lips in a smile that pretends to be innocent but looks more obscene and indecent than a whore with her legs spread open.

"You were wrong."

In reply, Jim closes his teeth around Sherlock's earlobe.

"I'm never wrong."

The sigh escapes Sherlock's mouth the exact moment the music stops. He was unlucky: he can't ignore it and pretend it never happened. Sherlock remains silent then, withdraws into himself – like he does every time Jim asks him something he can't (or doesn't want to) answer – and keeps his eyes fixed on the orchestra. He acts that way only out of pride, of course. It's a childish tantrum that Jim should find irritating but he can't help but find _adorable_.

Despite the apparent distance, Sherlock doesn't move away from Jim's touches. He stays still even when they become more insistent, when the hand is palming his groin and all the traces of casual innocence are gone. But then Sherlock spreads his legs just a few inches – they are enough to make the criminal hold back a giggle, to make him taste the beginning of a laughter that on the tip of his tongue it's fresh like a spring breeze – and under his fingers Jim can feel him getting hard. He grins.

"Do you find that _hard_ asking what you truly want?"

Jim's voice is a hot whisper that breaks against Sherlock's neck. It's temptation personified, the hiss of the snake who convinced Eve to pick the apple. It's something that Sherlock simply can't resist. Sherlock turns, swallows hard and stares at him right in the eyes and _oh_ , his pupils are so dilated and his blue irises are so full of desire that Jim has to suppress a moan of pure happiness and ecstasy.

However, even if the need – because yes, Sherlock needs him in every way imaginable, from the intellectual to the sexual meaning of the word – is clearly visible, his face his still hard and his lips are still tightened in  a perfectly straight line. Jim looks at him and all he can think about is that he wants to destroy that apparent calm, he wants to create chaos there where Sherlock struggles to maintain order.

"Jim"

What comes out Sherlock's mouth is more an order than a plead. His voice is harsh and scratchy like a sharp rock. It makes Jim's erection even more uncomfortable.

"Yes?"

Sherlock breathes deeply, like you do just before diving.

"Go down on your knees" He licks his lips, swallow hard and Jim finds himself copying his movements without being aware, a mirror that reflects a twisted and warped image. "And take it in your mouth." He adds, the last word leaving his mouth even more hoarse than the previous.

A giggle escapes from Jim's lips. The sound makes him look younger than he is.

"See? It wasn't difficult."

He simply comments, before kneeling between Sherlock's legs without flinching. Their seats are secluded, the chance of someone noticing them is very low, especially considering the price of a ticket and the skill of the musicians. However, it's not impossible. Being caught is still a possibility, is a slightly burning sensation that causes a tickle under the skin, is a thought that should concern but that, in their minds, makes the whole situation even more arousing.

"I didn't told you to speak, I think."

"As you wish."

A click of tongue and Jim lowers his gaze, dark eyes on the bulge on Sherlock's trousers. He takes all the time in the world Jim, flutters his long black eyelashes a few times – he does so with a childlike innocence that on him seems just wrong – and licks his lips before closing his teeth around the zip. He pulls down his trousers using only his mouth.

He looks up. Upon him, Sherlock already has open lips and heavy breath. Jim smiles a smile that opens his face like the blade of a knife. He lays a open mouth kiss on the boner, hidden by gray boxers now a little too tight. He closes his eyes again. Moves his tongue without any shame, wetting Sherlock's underwear and moaning a little against the fabric, enjoying the feel of cotton against his mouth. It's been a while since Sherlock gagged him, he notes distractedly.

Sherlock's hands moves on his head. His fingers – long and slender, violinist fingers that Jim loves having inside himself, around which he loves tightening – are clenching at his hair, messing the strands held in place by the gel.

Sherlock  pushes Jim's face even more towards his erection. It can only mean one thing.

The underwear meets the same fate of the trousers.

Jim doesn't waste any more time: he places a little kiss on the tip and then wraps his lips around it. He moves his tongue over it and moans so the vibrations of his voice resound on his cock, but he keeps giving attention only to a specific spot, for the mere pleasure of feeling the Sherlock's frustration in the way his fingers grasp at his hair and his hips starts thrusting. If he could, he would laugh.

He slides the entire length in his mouth without any warning. The pubic hair tickle his nose when he decides to look up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

The image just above him is so beautiful that takes his breath away. Even more than the cock he has between his lips.

Sherlock threw his head back and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. In the dim light, his pale skin is even more inviting, it tends over sharp bones and toned muscles of which Jim only has a flash. The Adam's apple moves up and down in a rhythm that makes him want to bite it until it bleeds.

As much Sherlock is gorgeous – and he truly is, he has a particular and not conventional beauty, full of sharp angles carved in marble – what Jim finds really beautiful is the energy and the heat that permeates his body. It's life in his purest and primal form, it's heart beating too fast and head too light. It's the chaos he was looking for.

There is no time for complicated arguments and hypotheses, not when Sherlock's lips move and spell something that sound like "Jim", not when his hands tighten the grip on the hair, clinging to dark strands as if they were the only anchor in a world that is collapsing on itself.

Jim keeps staring at him even while bobbing his head, sliding rhythmically on the length he keeps caressing with the tongue. He licks, sucks. He groans, moans and makes strangled noises similar to the ones Sherlock is suffocating in the back of his hand.

The grip around his hair gets almost painful. It's followed by a couple of thrusts: they aren't deep because of their position and for a second Jim curses his impatience, because if only he had waited Sherlock now would be fucking his mouth properly and without restraining himself.

Sherlock looks down for a moment. Their eyes meet and in his irises – they are thin, the blue has been eaten by the dilated pupils – Jim can read not only need and desire but complete abandon, so deep and intense to overwhelm him. It's a feeling that strikes the most hidden and intimate strings of his soul, it makes them vibrate and gives Jim a tangible proof of how alike they are.

For some reason, it makes him want to be used.

Sherlock feels what he feels. He wants him in the same way he does. Their desires and needs coincide and become one. They become one.

They are the same. _They are the same!_ The voice in his head – the one that never shuts up, not even when Sherlock points a gun to his head or fucks him so hard that every cell of his body burns – keeps repeating it, an almost religious litany that could make him reach the climax even without being touched with a single finger.

Sherlock isn't holding his moans anymore, now. They hover in the air, low and deep they carry Jim's name and add a new note to the symphony they have, by now, forgotten. Sherlock comes without any warning, preceded only by a thrust deeper and more desperate than the others.

Jim swallows, takes off Sherlock's now flaccid dick from his mouth and licks his lips, lingering over every bit millimetre of skin to collect even the smallest drop. He shows off obscenely just for Sherlock, who keeps staring at him as if he was the most incredible thing in the whole world, the only thing worthy of being watched.

Before sitting in his chair, Jim gives Sherlock a little kiss on the lips. He gives him the chance to taste his own cum.

"Sherlock..." He sighs, his left hand sliding down, this time to his own crotch. The palm presses on the already painful erection. Sherlock follows the gesture with his gaze. "I expect you to do something about this before the ending of the concert..." He says, voice dragged into a whimper.

Sherlock looks right in front of him again. His lips are open in a smile.

"Of course. We can't leave unused the travel size lube bottle you have in your pocket."


End file.
